


Coffee and scotch

by souh



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/souh/pseuds/souh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto tasted like coffee and scotch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and scotch

Ianto tasted like coffee and scotch.  In the haze of the morning, bleary eyed and preparing to shamble over to the coffee maker, he tasted like scotch.  Jack would tease him that his morning breath was what caused the burning sensation, and, if Ianto was more awake than normal, he would respond with comments about lack of breath, to which Jack would smirk as if to say, “Shall we test that theory?”

After four or so cups, and a luxuriously long shower, “This is why I get up at this ungodly hour, you crude heathen.  So that I can take my time.” and “Seriously?  It’s, like, 4 am, even the aliens aren’t awake right now!  Come back to bed, I’m lonely.”, he smells and tastes purely of coffee…and mint.  Somehow, even after half a pot, he still tastes slightly like the corner store toothpaste.

Midday is when the scotch begins to appear again.  Jack supposed it took a bit for all that coffee to dissolve off his palate, but he never had a problem with it.  Coffee flavored Ianto was his favorite flavor of the beverage.  The only reason he had to drink something different was because the last time he had taken Ianto’s mug, the smell alone made him horny.  The fact that Ianto kept blushing when Jack would sip the drink and then softly moan was simply too perfect, even if it did get him a very vengeful 5 minutes in the far supply closet.  Let it never be said that Ianto wasn’t creative in his tortures…

Evenings were breathy scents of smoky apples and molasses brushing over sensitive skin and the last sweet remnants of coffee kissed onto a very willing, very well worshipped canvas covered in sweat and spunk.

 

 

(Now for the sad moment, because I’m a horrid, terrible person.)

 

 

It’s been years, centuries if one were to go by the number of days, rather than the calendar.  His beloved Ianto is still beyond his reach, gone to the one place he cannot travel as yet, death continuing to escape his desperate grasp.  These days, though, he still remembers the feel, the flavor.

Coffee and scotch still, and always will, taste like him. 


End file.
